


move a little closer now

by acezukos (purplefennels7)



Series: abby does fleet week 2k20 [6]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (and a tiny dash of angst for flavour), Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, fundamentally they dance and then kiss i promise it's soft, mentions of bato's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25856026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefennels7/pseuds/acezukos
Summary: “Bato,” he says, looking down at him and smiling. “Dance with me?”“I can’t,” Bato says even as he lets himself be pulled to his feet, Hakoda leaning in to support his weakened side with a hand behind his back.“Trust me.”
Relationships: Bato/Hakoda (Avatar)
Series: abby does fleet week 2k20 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851535
Comments: 43
Kudos: 163
Collections: Bakoda Fleet Week 2020





	move a little closer now

**Author's Note:**

> WE'RE HERE WE MADE IT THIS IS THE LAST FLEET WEEK FIC I'M V LATE BUT WOOOOOO this is...unedited and fought me like nothing else but i hope u enjoy anyway <3
> 
> title from one direction's "c'mon, c'mon"

The fleet docks for the night a few miles away from some small Earth Kingdom port town, barely big enough to be worthy of the term but enough to deter Hakoda and the rest of the captains from docking in the harbour proper. They’ve run into one too many incidents with people paranoid about any non-citizens, to say nothing of the towns actually occupied by Fire Nation troops. This has the downside of forcing them to run even the ships damaged in the last skirmish up onto the beach, but it’s a small price to pay. With the abundance of wooded land stretching out from the end of the sand, they’re able to collect enough wood for a proper bonfire as well as to begin spot repairs on the ships. 

They put the discovery that stewed ocean kumquats taste remarkably like sea prunes to good use over the fire, and after the bowls of soup are gone, a few of the men start producing musical instruments. A few of the younger warriors are the first to start tapping their toes to the music wafting up into the night sky. When they cast wary looks at Hakoda for permission, it’s instinct born of decades of friendship as much as it is years of being Chief and second in command that makes Hakoda look over at Bato through the haze of smoke in the air, and Bato lifts one shoulder in a  _ what can you do? _ sort of way. And, well, they’re as safe as they’re likely going to be here. The men, and the two of them, deserve a night off. 

So he waves them to their feet, pulling his legs in under himself to open up more space in front of the fire. It’s not  _ good _ dancing, per se, closer to just a mildly rhythmic leaping in circles, but it still reminds Hakoda of festivals from back home, of spinning around a blazing fire every year at the solstice, of trying to teach a young Sokka to sway his baby sister to a drumbeat. He expects the rest of the men to join the dancers now that he’s given his approval, but instead a few of them have their heads bent together on the other side of the firepit, casting occasional glances in his direction. It doesn’t take long for the tallest of the group to break away and make his way around the edge of the circle, stopping in front of Hakoda and offering a hand.

“Would you dance, Chief?” he asks, eyes wide and earnest, and Hakoda grins and lets him clasp his forearm to pull him to his feet. It’s good for morale, he muses as their makeshift musical accompaniment shifts into something fast and playful, to have even the Chief loosening up for an evening. Beyond that, though, he really does miss this sort of thing. In war even more so than in peace, he’s always on duty, always trying to think one step ahead, keep the men fed and watered and in fighting form. For him as well as Bato, the moons painted on their armour are an ever-present reminder of how they’re set apart; more nights spent bent together over guttering candlelight planning their next move instead of sitting around the campfire or up on the main deck with the rest of the crew. 

But here, now, with the sound of the waves breaking gently onto the sandbars off the beach and a meal warm in his stomach, he finds all of it slipping from his shoulders like it was never there to begin with. A gleeful laugh tears out of his mouth as he links arms with the men on either side of him, swinging them around in a little jig and just as abruptly releasing them for the next pair, leaving them looking after him with no small amount of surprise. It’s like the buzz of adrenaline in battle with none of the fear, and it’s almost contagious, after the surprised stares have stopped coming his way. 

He’s in the middle of showing off some of the steps that he remembers his own parents teaching him, back when he’d barely even heard of the war, when he catches sight of Bato sitting back beyond the circle of men clapping along with the beat, half his face cast in shadow and staring directly at him with a look in his eyes so raw that it nearly takes Hakoda’s breath away. 

“Excuse me,” he mutters to the people around him, the grin dropping from his face in an instant. A little chorus of “Chief, is something wrong?” flitters after him, but he pays them no heed as he breaks away from them and pushes through the crowd. He practically falls to his knees next to the log Bato is sitting on, looking up at him and feeling no small amount of desperation as Bato’s eyes go briefly wide and he looks away.

“Bato,” he says, “is everything alright?” Bato stares at the ground for a breath, then meets Hakoda’s eyes with an obviously faked nonchalance.

“I’m alright, Chief.”  _ Chief, _ not Koda, not even Hakoda. And Bato has always loved to dance, would barge into Hakoda’s tent early in the morning on festival days begging for him to practice with him, had teased Hakoda for their entire lives about having one and a half left feet - better than two, but not  _ good, _ like anyone would look at Hakoda’s bumbling next to Bato’s natural grace.

“You’re not,” Hakoda says, reaching out and putting his hand on Bato’s shoulder, and he physically feels it when he flinches. “You’re shaking.” Bato looks intently at him, and Hakoda starts counting in his head -  _ one, two, three, four- _

“Scars,” Bato says finally, trying to shrug Hakoda’s hand off his shoulder. “I can’t dance like that anymore. Maybe ever. The sisters said I might never regain full range of motion in this arm.”

Staring at Bato, trembling with the effort of keeping his hands steady, the shadows across his face barely touched by the firelight, Hakoda feels guilt like a spear right through his chest.  _ His fault.  _

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Bato, I’m so sorry.” Bato looks at him strangely.

“What for?” He raises his uninjured hand and curls cool fingers around Hakoda’s wrist, pulling it to rest on his knee. “The Fire Nation did this. Not you.” And Hakoda might be the orator but the conviction in Bato’s voice is so unwavering that if he’d asked a mountain to politely move out of the way, Hakoda thinks it would’ve done so with an apology. 

He looks down at their still-joined hands, rubbing his thumb across the ridge of Bato’s wrist, then glances back over his shoulder at where the tune has changed again, to something quiet and slow. And then he has an idea, and pushes to his feet, still holding onto Bato’s hand. He might not be able to undo the damage quite literally seared into Bato’s skin, but he can still give him this.

“Bato,” he says, looking down at him and smiling. “Dance with me?”

“I can’t,” Bato says even as he lets himself be pulled to his feet, Hakoda leaning in to support his weakened side with a hand behind his back. 

“Trust me.” He steps them out into the space between the log and the surrounding forest, his free hand up on Bato’s shoulder and the loose ends of Bato’s hair tickling his fingertips. 

“What-” Bato says, but his free hand falls to Hakoda’s hip anyway.

“So little faith in me. Just sway, yeah? Nothing complicated.” And so they do, Hakoda humming under his breath to the tune, steadying Bato’s shaking hand with his own. The music lulls for a beat, and Hakoda squeezes his hand once -  _ you okay? _ and Bato squeezes back -  _ yes. _

And the music plays on, and everything else falls away, swirling up into the black along with the smoke from the fire - the war, the guilt, the responsibilities - leaving only them, and the points of warmth where they’re holding each other. Their eyes meet as Hakoda gently guides them into a turn, looking up to make sure that he isn’t aggravating Bato’s arm, and he feels like sparks are igniting under his skin. They spin back together, and they’ve gravitated closer over the course of the song, enough that they’re practically embracing, Bato’s chin a ghost of pressure atop Hakoda’s head. 

The last note shivers through the air, and they freeze as surely as if they’d been pinned there. Hakoda stays looking determinedly at his hand on Bato’s shoulder, unwilling to be the first to break this strange lull of a moment, and so he’s taken entirely by surprise when two scarred fingers slip under his chin and tilt his head up to meet Bato’s eyes. For the second time that evening the breath leaves Hakoda’s lungs as he registers the look on Bato’s face, and he doesn’t have the words to describe it but if he did it would be something like  _ yearning. _ His heart is beating nearly out of his chest, throat tight in anticipation of something he barely dares to put a name to, as to keep it from slipping through his fingers. With how close they are, he’d almost be surprised if Bato couldn’t feel it. 

Behind them, the men playing the music have started on another song, equally as slow as the last, but they might as well have been on the moon for all that Hakoda notices. 

“Bato,” he nearly whispers, because Bato is still just  _ looking at him, _ fingers light on his chin like he’s something precious. 

“Koda,” Bato says back, just as soft, his thumb stroking across the line of Hakoda’s jaw. Hakoda bites down on his lip without thinking, and  _ hears _ Bato take a sharp breath, and hope flares sharp and sudden in his chest. “Koda, can I - can I kiss you?”

Hakoda doesn’t answer, or at least not with his words. Instead, he leans up onto his tiptoes, steadied by the hand still on his hip, and Bato’s hand slips sideways to cup his cheek, and then they’re kissing, achingly soft, and Hakoda’s eyes flutter shut on their own. Bato’s mouth is warm against his, and his lips are chapped, and Hakoda presses closer, feeling like something cosmic is settling to rest inside him.

Bato releases him with a little nip to his bottom lip, and Hakoda has to fight not to chase after him, stopped only by Bato’s hand still holding him in place. When he opens his eyes he sees Bato smiling down at him, and he grins back, feeling a little like a fool and not caring in the least.

“I thought you didn’t-” Bato says, breaking off and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Hakoda blinks.

“You thought-? I’ve been trying not to hope-” They stare at each other, incredulously, and then Bato practically yanks Hakoda off his feet and into another kiss, and objectively it isn’t even particularly good because they’re laughing into each other’s mouths and smiling too hard to kiss properly but Hakoda feels like he could fly.

“How long?” Hakoda asks when they break apart again.

“Forever, maybe,” Bato says roughly, tracing the line of Hakoda’s cheekbone with a finger. “At least...since the time you broke your leg because you wouldn’t wait to go out until the storm was over because you wanted to impress your dad?”

“That-” Hakoda lets out a surprised noise. “That was when we were…”

“Sixteen? Yeah.”

“Bato, I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Hakoda breathes, putting his hand over Bato’s on his own face. “All this time.”

“It’s alright. You and Kya were  _ happy, _ and all I ever wanted was to see you happy.”

“I’ll always love her,” Hakoda says, and the accompanying pang whenever he thinks of her makes him shake for a second, but Bato’s arms are secure around him and when he rests his forehead against his shoulder, Bato runs hesitant fingers through his hair and drops a kiss after them. “But I think...I think it’s been you for a long time now.”

“I’d be more worried if you didn’t,” Bato replies. “I never even thought you’d feel the same.” Hakoda reaches up and taps him on the nose.

“We got there in the end.” 

“We did.” Bato shifts to tuck Hakoda into his chest, resting his chin atop his head and starting to sway them together to the music still continuing around the fire. Hakoda turns his head so his cheek is flat against Bato’s chest, listening to his heart beating steadily. Here, pressed against Bato with the sea breeze tugging gently at his hair, he feels more at peace than he has in a long time. 

“You think they’ve forgotten we’re here?” one of the musicians whispers to the man next to him, nodding towards where the Chief and second-in-command are locked together just beyond the shadow of the tree line. He only gets a shake of the head in return.

“Shh, they deserve to have this. Just keep playing.” He nods, and casts another look at the pair of men before bending back over his instrument. And it’s true, he’s noticed - it would be hard not to, within the close quarters aboard the ships - the glances that linger a little too long, the touching when none would be necessary. He’s been wondering how long it would take for them to notice that it went both ways, and now that it seems they’ve finally figured it out, then he’ll keep playing for however long they want.

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 6 of [bakoda fleet week](https://bakodafleetweek.tumblr.com) for the _height difference | dancing_ prompts. i'd love u forever for comments/kudos.
> 
> on [tumblr](https://acezukos.tumblr.com)


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